The Betrayed

Darkness.  I looked around and could see only darkness.  The wind continued to blow, cold and biting, so I knew it was only in my head.  Biting.  The word seemed so fitting for the moment.  The world had a tendency to bite, didn’t it?  Funny, as much as being the King of my own kingdom didn’t change that.  A night of sleep in my soft bed couldn’t abate this feeling.  I had woken early, fending the shadows of morning off just barely enough to get out of bed. How could she??  Stepping out onto the battlements, feeling the icy winter’s breath on my face cooled my headache, but did little to push back the dread and bewilderment.  Is anything real?  What am I even doing in life?  I ran my fingers over the crenelations in the stone walls.  Standing above the land, and behind these grand blocks of stone kept me from the pain. Or so you thought, fool.  

I looked out over the holdings I could see from my vantage point.  The river cutting through the earth to the southwest, churning with it’s haste to reach the destination.  Ironically, the battering seas, do you begin to see?  Comfort.  That’s where my life meant something before.  In days past.  I had been upended by her betrayal.

To find that an acquaintance was naught but smoke and mirrors, that could be handled easily enough.  Banishment.  This woman, however flawed and however distant, moving around far reaches of the castle, had gained a place at the table.  Comfort and counsel were in her laugh.  When she came around (chose to, that is), lights brightened, the air felt warmer…more, home.  No more. You should have known, pushed her away.  You should have exiled her.  

I shook my head, trying to dispel the thoughts, break away from the feeling of painful euphoria.  The stone beneath my hands and the fittingly icy winds reminded me I wasn’t dreaming.  I would take the day away from Royal Appointments, away from the throne room.  Today is a day to regroup.  The people, my people…rely on me.  They look to me for leadership and advice, they turn to me when they are in doubt.  Now I am the one in doubt – that is no good for anyone.

A day.  That’s what I need.  To be angry.  To be hurt.  To scream out my kingly fury on a page if need be.  I’ve learned now.  Or have you?  Have you truly learned?  To what….trust yourself?  You just let a witch hold you captive for 4 years.  Can you trust you?

It was a good question.  As I backed into my rooms, looking out at the sun, I could still only see the shadows, the darkness.  Who could I trust?

Fear and Trembling

The skies roared and fell.  The fire burned and shimmered.  His eyes were malice, and in the heat there could be nothing more cold.  Death captured within a gaze, careless and despondent he stood within the maelstrom of his own fury.  

He was hurt and bleeding, but felt it not.  The song of his damnation rang in the streets, hatred and anger sat in his chest as more friend than any living soul.  They all burned.  It was better this way, he was stronger alone.  

Named Flamesinger by those never-seen, he embraced the name, became the name, forged the name.

Tremble and know his song.

Excerpt.

An excerpt from Shadowveil:  Rise of the Power  ©Anthony M. Oleson 2012-2013

               In the distance, the fog was barely visible over the horizon, yet, he swore he could see something, and the surrounding area flashed as if lightning had unleashed a single lashing upon the mountainside.  The flash drew his gaze downward, and coming over the easterly hill shambled a figure.  It looked to have long hair, and trudged along, obviously road-worn.  Each step brought the figure closer, and faintly he could hear a voice.

The voice held a lilting female tone, and cried out in a restrained silent song, on the verge of panic.  As the words wafted through the air, they became audible as no more than a whispering plea.  But he couldn’t be hearing them right.

“Treyfallow…Maernyn,” the voice caressed, “Maernyn…”  The words brought the clearly female form closer in a shimmering blur, and suddenly the nonsensical woman was fully visible.  She was a vision of perfection and nightmare, so closely twined he didn’t know where one ended and the other began.

Her figure bent as if to propel her forward, but her legs slowed her.  Both looked as if they had been broken several times and allowed to set out of place.  Her face, while young and spritely, held the true horror.  Her lips cracked, bleeding in several places.  Her nose, jutting at angry angles in defiance of itself, carried into eyes of milky white.  Dual surfaces of Shal’tza, the Mothermoon, projecting from beneath agonized eyebrows.

A wide cut swathed her features from temple to jaw, blood flowing unchecked down her neck, soaking the riding dress she wore with its crimson touch.  A few paces from Maernyn, she fell to her knees, tears now mingling with the distress of her position.  She reached out her trembling hand to gain hold on his foot.

The woman’s cold skin touched his ankle, shocking Maernyn, making him fully alert.  He didn’t wake up.  I didn’t wake up. He thought. Wait, I’m not dreaming?  His pulse quickened at the horror of his situation.  The woman terrified him, and he jerked away, his ankle burning like a raw nerve.  She looked as though she still wanted to plead with him, but didn’t have the energy.  Her breathing came in short, ragged gasps and she no longer stretched for him.

She wept.  Her wail was ice.  It bore the weight of life, a freezing sound of sorrow that could crush the soul.

The Wizard’s Way

The silvered beard wagged to-and-fro,

This Wizard knew the friend from foe.

In the deep and dark fear swallows fast,

Shades rising up from beyond his past.

Turns he quick ’round corners slick,

Magic dancing with  finger’s  flick.

Whither and where and here and there,

His eyes did light, and powered glare.

Shadows and demons black as night,

Vaulted and screamed within his sight.

Deep dug he, through ages gone,

In the ancient flame he would carry on.

They howled and shrieked and cursed his name,

He shattered and broke them, chained in shame.

“Not lost, this day, while light holds sway,

For ages to come, no matter the fray.”

The Steed and the Serpent….(Friday Fictioneers!!!)

Yep.  I’m back.  I should have warned you like Arnold in Terminator.  I did not, and for that I am horrendously sorry.  Actually, no I’m not, but that’s not the point.  I’m back!!  Boom.  Let’s do this.  Consider me….rusty.

 

Genre: Seriously? By now I’d think you’d know its Fantasy.

The serpent sneered.  He was too devious for this Stone Steed.  How he ended up in the brute’s mouth still befuddled.  His lightning-fast tongue gave ample warning, the ground rumbling with the granite gallop, yet here he was.  He tested his range of motion, sliding his body to the left.  Motion.  Good…  Just a little bit of scaly tail around a hoof, and he could end this.  The horse twisted its head.  Never mind.  He was debating using the strength of his water-glands when he felt a sharp increase in the pressure.  Water sprayed and he smiled wistfully.  So this is……..

And So They Rested. (Friday Fictioneers!!)

This week came out a little different, though I didn’t expect a different genre 🙂  Friday Fictioneers it is time once again to delve into my brain!

Genre:  Fantasy

And so they rested, last instruments of power,

In a feeble cabinet locked, beneath the vaults of Master’s tower.

A song they sang upon a sunrise long ago,

Beauty and light once rang upon the bow.

Master abandoned them to a deepest darkest night,

Let their power fade into abyssal twilight.

Alas!  Their day has finally come,

That a hero should rise to make the bodies hum.

Banished will be the blackness that lingers,

Unless greed and anger does come upon his fingers.

‘Ware thee then, oh simple man,

It may be you the power shall command.

Works In Progress

Boy, being new to this doesn’t help.  I think I’m simply promoting this page on my own blog.  This is where I will randomly post updates or pieces of my story as I work on it.

 

Works In Progress.

Phryne Amarantyne

First of all the disclaimer.  I do NOT own any of these names, places or events named here.  This is a “mid-chapter” doodle in between events in the book “Legends of Shannara: The Measure of the Magic” by Terry Brooks.  All copyright belongs to the author alone.  

The elven eyes betrayed only sadness and desperation as the girl realized the truth of things.  Though their lives were immeasurably longer than that of their human counterpart, she knew death and knew it well.  Her father had been murdered within sight just moments before.  King Oparion Amarantyne was beloved of his people, and respected by those of the “lesser” races who rarely visited and were welcomed into the elven city of Arborlon.  She shed a many a tear, feeling each subsequent roll of moisture down her cheek.

The Home Guard had not yet come to claim her, yet she suspected it would not be long.  Her lengthy childhood prepared her for any amount of love and life, but Oparion had warned her that life as a Princess would also bring a certain amount of intrigue, drama and possibly much deeper threats.  The wife her father chose after mother passed harbored a secret love of power that was hard to miss unless you were enthralled by the sights and scents of the woman.  Father, in a very foolhardy and dramatic fashion, was completely taken with Iseold’s beauty…the allure of all that is to be young.

Phryne Amarantyne was not tricked, nor was she lured by the sweetness of the woman.  For all the sweetness of tongue, the older woman could not trick or persuade the princess into loving or believing her.  The King had drawn away from his daughter, as much from the shock of memory as distraction by his new muse.  She commanded his attention, absorbed it, and radiated it back to the Court so as to be seen in a favorable light.

Thus, the Princess knew it was only a matter of time before she was unduly blamed and locked up for her father’s death.  Both the King’s wife and her perpetual slime of an aide, Teonette, had raised no small fuss about the proximity of the teenage girl to the gruesome scene unfolding in her father’s chambers.  They shrieked that the blood on her robes and hands were the end result of a fight witnessed in the hours before.

“She said she hated her father and she wished he would just hurry up and die!!” the blubbering Iseold said to the arriving Guardsmen.  “I saw the knife rise and fall, and couldn’t believe for a moment what I was seeing.”  She wiped the tears and sweat away from her face, glancing quickly at Phryne to make sure the girl was frozen in fear, just as she expected.  A slight curve tinged the edge of her mouth, and a sparkle lit the corner of her eye as she witnessed the tears Princess Phryne could not stop.

“I must take action immediately to ensure this vile child can harm no more members of the Amarantyne household.”  The woman drew herself up, straightening her back as if to enlarge her stature, and her power right along with it.

Iseold Severine would have what she wanted, and nothing could stand in her way this time.  “Take this patricidal villain into the supply room in the Council chambers.  Murderer or not, she is still a princess.  We must show the elves every pretense of respect if I’m to take the throne without outright civil war.”  A slight wave of fear brushed past her eyes as she considered the Orullians, who would surely stand up against her in Phryne’s name…..

They once were… (Friday Fictioneers!)

Here we are!  Another week gone but another chance to write to a photo!  This one came to me almost immediately…I love it, lets do this Fictioneers!!

Genre: Fantasy

In the days of old, they had power.  Immense, stone-crushing, mind-shredding power they wielded.  Now they stand under their glowing multi-colored spectacles, hands raised high and faces radiant with lofty pride.  The explosions reverberate across the lands.  I can feel it in my chest, and for a moment my ears ring.  But this isn’t power, not really.  It is vanity.

I remember thunder and bolts of electricity so thick they sheared mountains.  What do these modern “wizards” call these…fireworks?  They will know fire, and in my conflagration of power, they will remember too late what they once were…

Shadows and Accusation (Friday Fictioneers)

Well Christmas is pretty much over for me.  It was a great weekend but now I have to get back to it!  So without further ado here is this week’s Friday Fictioneers entry…Hosted by none other than Rochelle Wisoff-Fields…Look at the picture, write 100 words.  Easy right?  Nope.  But hey, its fun so see below would you already?

The creature stood before her in the dim light, eyes glowing with accusation.  Candles having long since sputtered out,  she let her natural dark-sight take over as she glared back with obvious annoyance.  Hours and days and days and hours she spent fitting all the images together.  Would they believe her?  How could she convince the Wise Ones on the elder council to hear warnings she had yet to scribe?  The nearly blank page beneath the striped shadow accused her in its ruined purity.  The start so far would not be enough. “Esteemed Elders, we stand to soon be threatened…”